He liked the young man for his earnestness and honest outspeaking.

Richard could not say all was well, but he gave his hand, and knitted it to the farmer's in a sharp squeeze, when he got upon Cassandra, and rode into the tumult.
A calm, clear dawn succeeded the roaring West, and threw its glowing grey image on the waters of the Abbey-lake.

Before sunrise Tom Bakewell was abroad, and met the missing youth, his master, jogging Cassandra leisurely along the Lobourne park-road, a sorry couple to look at.
Cassandra's flanks were caked with mud, her head drooped: all that was in her had been taken out by that wild night.

On what heaths and heavy fallows had she not spent her noble strength, recklessly fretting through the darkness! "Take the mare," said Richard, dismounting and patting her between the eyes.

"She's done up, poor old gal! Look to her, Tom, and then come to me in my room." Tom asked no questions.
Three days would bring the anniversary of Richard's birth, and though Tom was close, the condition of the mare, and the young gentleman's strange freak in riding her out all night becoming known, prepared everybody at Raynham for the usual bad-luck birthday, the prophets of which were full of sad gratification.